


building memories on things we have not said

by skatingsplits



Series: skatingsplits' kinktober 2020 [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Bathroom Sex, F/F, Kinktober 2020, Love Letters, uses insider position to send pretty brunette filthy notes, villanelle infiltrates MI5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26864161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: She knows, intellectually, that it's weird. Flattering, but weird. Interesting and intoxicating and incredible, but weird. Eve just hadn’t been able to help herself. Twelve years at MI5 and a secret admirer popping their head up out of nowhere was the most exciting thing to happen to her since she’d ridden in the same elevator as Stella Rimmington that one time in 2011.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: skatingsplits' kinktober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956301
Comments: 22
Kudos: 109





	building memories on things we have not said

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title from Fiona Apple's The First Taste.  
> 2\. My first time trying my hand at Villaneve, hope you enjoy as much as I enjoy looking at Sandra.  
> 3\. Villanelle's alias in this story is a combination of two of my favourite 20th century lesbians, prizes awarded for guessing who.

Eve still can’t figure out how she does it. It’s been two months- seven weeks and three days, actually, and she kind of hates that she knows that- and she's no closer to working out how the clever little bitch operates than she had been when she found the first neatly-folded letter on her desk. If anybody else had told her that their co-worker was managing to leave them a sexually explicit love-note without being seen _every fucking day_ Eve would have cheerfully told them they were losing it, but she knows what cracking up feels like and she knows it isn't this. If anything, trying to catch Violet Maxwell in the act has sharpened her wits back up to the spiky, electric points they'd been before a decade in an MI5 desk job sanded down the edges and cut the power lines. Not that it’s helped. She's never so much as caught the lingering scent of Violet's perfume, but Eve knows that it's her as surely as she knows that the sun will rise in the morning and Bill will always want to borrow a pound for a horrible vending machine coffee. 

She hadn't known at first though. The first message had been short and sweet and so unexpected that Eve would have been less surprised if she'd come back from lunch to find a shrunken head on her desk. All it had said was: 

_You should wear your hair down more often._

Maybe it had been dumb to be pleased, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Twelve years at MI5 and a secret admirer popping their head up out of nowhere was the most exciting thing to happen to her since she’d ridden in the same elevator as Stella Rimmington that one time in 2011. Eve and Elena had spent twice as much time speculating about who it could be than they had doing any actual work. They’d just placed their final bets- Eve on Max in HR who spends every Christmas party openly staring at her tits and Elena on the irritatingly shy new intern who doesn’t seem to have ever spoken to a human woman before- when the next note had appeared, tucked into her morning briefing file. 

_I can tell by the way you carry yourself that_ _you don't realise how beautiful you are. Perhaps one day I'll have to show you._

For some reason, she hadn't shown Elena that one. 

After that, they started coming every day. Slipped into her pigeonhole, inside her lunchbox, dropped into her handbag, stuck to her paperwork. From the sweet and sincere: 

_I was at the ballet this weekend and I thought of you the whole time._ _The women move like you, graceful_ _and strong and beautiful._

To the- well, _less_ sweet and sincere. 

_Are you wearing a bra today?_ _I can see your nipples through that shirt,_ _Eve._

She still can’t explain exactly how she’d realised who was responsible, mostly because it doesn’t actually make sense and she’s painfully aware that if she tried to explain it to someone else, they’d think she really was crazy. Her eyes had been wandering around the briefing room, as they tend to do whenever Frank is chairing a meeting. When they swept listlessly over Violet Maxwell, Eve’s brain hadn't immediately processed what she’d seen. It was only when she looked again that she realised that the pretty, perky 20-something was staring right at her, brazen and unblinking, and in that instant Eve had just known. She’d nearly choked on thin air, felt the heat of the blush creeping up her neck. She hadn’t been able to meet Violet's eyes again but after that, things had... escalated. 

She should have stopped it then, logically. Maybe if she'd gently let Violet down after: 

_Your hair looks so soft, Eve. I think about_ _touching it when I walk past your desk, gently brushing my fingers against it so you can't even be sure if I've touched you or not._ _I wonder how it will feel in my hands when you're on your knees for me?_

Things would never have gotten as far as: 

_Did you wear that skirt for me, Eve?_ _I know you did. You wanted me to look at your legs_ _and I'm happy to_ _oblige. I look at them anyway,_ _but there's something_ _special_ _about_ _a woman in tights._ _It's a shame you'd have to take them off for me to eat your pussy._ _I'd let you keep the skirt on, though. I like the skirt._

And definitely not: 

_You look tense today, Mrs_ _Polastri_ _. Didn’t get any last night? Your husband looks like he couldn’t find your clit if his life depended on it. But I could. I think I know how your cunt will feel when I make you come for the first time. Let me find out if I’m right._

But Eve didn't let Violet down gently. She didn't say a fucking word. 

She knows, intellectually, that it's weird. Flattering, but weird. Exciting and intoxicating and incredible, but weird. Apart from anything else, Eve wouldn't have said that Violet was the type. She seems more ”perky head girl” than “smoking behind the bike shed rebel”, always so fucking helpful and polite. She's got that generic just-posh British girl voice that says she definitely used to ride horses but probably wouldn't set fire to a 50 in front of a homeless person, and Eve doesn't think she's ever seen her not smiling. Not even when (at every goddamn department meeting) Frank asks her to get him coffee and a croissant, something she has at least two degrees too many to be doing. She's so nice it’s verging on Stepfordy and yet she's obviously got some very _nasty_ thoughts swimming around underneath her high ponytail. 

The weirdest thing of all is that they’ve never had a proper conversation, nothing beyond hellos, goodbyes and can-I-borrow-your-staplers. Actually, maybe the weirdest thing is that Eve would have sworn that Violet was straighter than a yardstick. Or maybe it’s that it’s 2pm now and Eve’s mood is fouler than the bleak wet weather outside, all because she hasn’t had found a little piece of paper in her office yet today. Two-months-ago Eve would have hated herself for that. New Eve just hates Violet for it. 

But when Eve gets back from her afternoon check-in with Bill, there’s a folded piece of white paper on her desk, sitting between a half-empty thermos of coffee and a stack of personnel files for a hospital in Chelmsford. All as completely ordinary as they had been half an hour ago and yet the presence of that little bit of paper makes Eve feel as if she’s had that fucking laser-eye surgery there’s always annoying adverts for on the tube; everything just looks _better_. 

Today’s note is the shortest so far. It’s only two words but when Eve reads them, her skin prickles so sharply that for a moment, she irrationally assumes that the paper has given her an electric shock. 

_Bathroom. Now._

If anyone asked her afterwards, Eve wouldn’t be able to remember actually getting to the bathroom. It’s like she’s floating, unaware of anything except her destination. The office could be burning down around her and she wouldn’t notice anything. Only the violent beating of her pulse reminds her that this is actually a real thing that’s happening and not a scary-exciting dream. Usually this much anticipation sends her spiralling but right now, Eve isn’t freaking out, she isn’t overthinking. She’s laser-focused, grounded, so single-minded that she’s almost scaring herself. 

And yet the second the bathroom door shuts behind her, all that sharp focus completely disappears. There’s a hand sliding into her hair as soon as the lock clicks, a hot mouth on her neck, sharp nails digging into her hip. It’s overwhelming and Eve could no more focus on one particular aspect of this sensory overload than she could open her mouth and tell Violet to stop. Her own hands yank at soft, shiny hair, pulling that pretty face back. Any traces of the perky, smiling head girl have entirely disappeared; Violet’s eyes are heavy, her expression severe and strangely, deliciously arrogant, the set of her mouth hard and determined. For the first time in her entire life, Eve realises that this is what it is to have someone who isn’t just wholly devoted to pursuing you but is convinced beyond a doubt that you’re already caught. 

“I hope you’re not thinking that you can change your mind.” Her voice is hoarse and low and it makes Eve’s pulse stutter. “I’d be very, _very_ cross if you changed your mind, Eve.” 

There isn’t a single atom in Eve’s body that had even considered it, but now that she’s faced with the shimmery bubble of Violet’s supreme self-assurance, her stubborn streak is aching for a pin to pop it with. She can think of nothing more satisfying in the world than making uncertainty bleed into that intoxicating confidence, and she suddenly notices how obscenely wet she is beneath her sensible grey trousers. 

“And what if I did?” 

Violet’s eyes narrow. With instincts Eve didn’t even know she had, she manages to grab both slender wrists before hers can be grabbed, twisting them behind Violet’s back much more harshly than necessary. They struggle, pushing and pulling and twining together until Eve isn’t sure whose hair is tickling her neck or whose thigh is giving off so much heat. Her breath is coming alarmingly fast and it isn’t just from the physical exertion. 

“So ungrateful,” Violet purrs into her ear before trying to bite the lobe, and it really is a purr, a noise that would sound more natural coming from a jungle cat than a Zara-wearing Oxford graduate. “I’m beginning to think you didn’t even _like_ my letters, Eve.” 

“Would anyone like having a fucking stalker?” Eve has to admit that might have sounded more convincing if she wasn't literally grinding against Violet's thigh as she said it. 

“It’s only stalking if you don’t enjoy it. And you can say what you want but I know that you did. I know that you would have been heartbroken if I’d stopped.” The corners of Violet’s mouth turn down in a weird parody of sorrow that’s almost grotesque and Eve is still just self-aware enough to be alarmed by how much she wants to sink her teeth into one of those smooth, pink cheeks. 

“You’re deluded,” Eve murmurs, squeezing Violet’s wrists hard. It takes a minute for her to realise that she’s waiting to hear the crunching of bone, but the realisation doesn’t make her stop. And despite what must be serious pain, Violet is smiling widely, in a way that’s almost as disconcerting as her caricature of sadness. 

“I made you feel special.” Violet’s body twists, and Eve’s body twists, and they’re so close together that if it weren’t for their clothes, they could have melded into one being. “And you _liked_ it.” 

Afterwards, Eve will tell herself repeatedly that she doesn’t know who kissed the other first. Not that it really matters; once their lips touch, her brain switches back into that hyper-focused place where all the energy she’s ever had is devoted to seeing how much pressure from Eve’s teeth Violet’s bottom lip can take before she gasps or moans. Quite a lot, as it turns out, and the coppery-sharp taste of Violet’s bleeding mouth might be the most erotic thing Eve has ever experienced. She’s so entranced by it, so intent on consuming and being consumed, that she doesn’t notice clever fingers slipping down to unfasten her trousers until they first brush against the newly-bare skin of her midriff. And then they brush further down, Violet’s touch light as a feather until it isn’t, until her fingers are firm against the soaking wet flesh of Eve’s cunt. 

“I knew it.” The smug satisfaction in Violet’s voice would make Eve want to slap her if she wasn’t so desperate for her to keep doing what she’s doing. She can’t even respond, she can only just manage to breathe, her hands scrabbling uselessly at Violet’s sides. The angle of their bodies is awkward, shoved up against the bathroom door but she can’t bear to move in case something breaks this strange, intoxicating spell. 

“Do you get wet like this for me every day?” Violet asks, and there’s something in her voice that sounds different but Eve’s body is working way too hard to stop her heart going into actual overdrive to figure out what it is. 

“Who says it’s for you?” Eve tries, but it just makes Violet laugh. 

“You’re cute, Eve. It’s like you know what you want but you’re too scared to take it.” Two of Violet’s fingers are rubbing at Eve’s clit now, firm and insistent but not enough to hurt. Not yet, anyway. It’s achingly good. She’d almost forgotten how good it could be, someone else’s skilful fingers instead of your own, the hot excitement of not knowing exactly when and where pleasure is going to be given to you. 

“You don’t have to worry though,” Violet continues in a confidential whisper. “I can be brave enough for both of us.” 

For reasons she doesn’t want to examine too closely, that statement takes Eve’s breath away just as much as the rhythm of Violet’s fingers. The _overwhelming_ rhythm of Violet’s fingers. Although it doesn’t hurt, the way that she’ss rubbing at Eve’s clit feels almost brutal. There’s nothing inside her, no stimulation of her tits or her mouth or anywhere else. It’s as though Violet’s only goal is to make Eve come as fast and as hard as possible and there’s no room for teasing or seduction or sensuality, nothing that could possibly distract her. It’s unsettling and disturbing and, honestly? It’s perfect. 

Her hand is gripping onto Violet’s hair so hard that she’s half-expecting it to come out in her hands, as much to keep herself upright as to inflict pain on the still-smiling, beautiful, terrifying young woman. It’s too much, it’s _too much_ , and Eve is trembling so hard that her legs are threatening to give out any second but she knows that she’s seconds away from something glorious. 

Eve’s teeth pierce the soft skin of Violet’s shoulder as she comes, her cunt clenching almost painfully with nothing there to fill it, and if she didn’t have her mouth occupied, Eve can’t even imagine what kind of noises she’d be making. The sensation is more relief than pleasure, as if something inside her has been winding and coiling for far too long and she’s only just managed to release it before it shattered into pieces. She’s so grateful for the release that she can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed at how ready she’d been to fall apart for this near-stranger who somehow knows her way too well. 

The last twenty minutes- fuck that, the last two months- have done a lot to raise Eve’s bar for strangeness, but weirder even than the compulsive focus with which she’d brought Eve to orgasm is the way Violet acts when she’s done. She brings her hand to her mouth and tastes her fingertip, makes a contemplative noise that has a hot blush coming back to Eve’s cheeks, and gently shoves Eve out of the way to unlock the door. 

“But you didn’t-” Eve starts, only to be cut off by the most imperiously haughty look she’s ever seen. 

“Please,” Violet scoffs, and she slips out of the door before Eve has managed to button her trousers again, not even stopping to wipe the mess of lipstick and blood from her mouth. 

It’s only when she gets back to her desk, hair tied up and breathing regular, that Eve actually realises that she’d just cheated on her husband. From the moment the bathroom door had opened, the thought of Niko hadn’t so much as flickered across her consciousness. Even now, she doesn’t exactly... care? What had happened in the bathroom, the heady excitement of the letters, it’s all so far removed from the steady domesticity of their two-bed in Ilford that she can’t make herself believe that one could ever affect the other. 

Consequences come, though. They always do. 

All things considered, Eve can't even bring herself to be surprised when Frank is found dead at his desk, throat slit. She hadn’t _known_ , not really, but once the pieces- a missing hard drive, a missing Violet and the fucking croissant shoved into Frank’s mouth- are laid out in front of her, it makes a depressing amount of sense. Even more depressing is her interview with the police. What is she supposed to tell them? The missing suspect didn’t fuck like a Home Counties private school girl? Somehow, she can’t imagine that going down too well. Violet Maxwell, or whatever her real fucking name was, has already made Eve lose her dignity and come frighteningly close to flinging her sanity right into the dirty water of the Thames. She has no intention of losing her job as well. 

Maybe a better person would be more upset about their boss being brutally murdered in the office than they were about never seeing the woman who killed him again. Maybe a better person would feel guilty about betraying their husband, would want to make it up to him instead of picturing honey-blonde hair every time he touched them. And maybe a better person wouldn't have dozens of neatly folded pieces of paper stuffed in a box under their bed to read while they furiously masturbated after the husband in question left for work. 

Eve isn’t sure exactly when she realised that she wasn’t that person. It could have been when she opened that first piece of paper. Maybe it wasn’t until she had to bite into a 24-year-old's shoulder to keep her whole office from hearing what she sounds like when she comes. There are only two things Eve knows for certain; one, that it’s all Violet Maxwell’s fault. And two, that she isn’t going to be able to rest until she sees her again. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please come and visit me on tumblr @ marisacoulterr where I'm available for fic prompts and general enthusiasm for horrible women!


End file.
